Repeat: 100 Majora's Mask Oneshots
by TheAlpacaIllusionist
Summary: Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The clock keeps ticking, but time never seems to run out.
1. Separation

**Repeat: 100 Majora's Mask Oneshots**

 _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Disclaimer: I do not own the Zelda franchise nor am I the original cover image artist.

Chapter 1: Separation

Link sighed as he prepared himself. It was decidedly difficult to part with the one thing that had kickstarted his adventure ( _and protected him almost the whole_ way)—the Master Sword. From the moment he had first pulled it from the stone, the piece of metal had echoed into the very depths of soul, its voice calling to him no matter how long he slept. No matter how many times he went to put it back, he always came back knowing that he had to do so. He had no choice ( _sometimes he didn't want to return to the future because it hurt—there were only thoughts of fear and darkness—and the past was so pleasantly safe, so why did that damned, damned, damned sword keep calling him back?)_. But he didn't really mind.

 _Really_.

It was for two reasons, if any.

The first, Link knew he had a job to do. No one else could stop Ganondorf. No one. That sword ( _why, why, why_ ) called to him for a reason. It pulled and twisted his insides when he was away from it and made him indistinctly uncomfortable, but when he held it, it felt _right_. Because this was his journey, his great adventure and his chance to prove himself to all those Kokiri children who had _laughed_ at him for having no fairy.

The second reason was not as serious or important as the first, but it was there, Link had to say, in a slightly selfish kind of way. The Master Sword was truly that—a master of its kind. The Kokiri Sword, the Biggoron Sword, and every other weapon he had picked up on his journey paled in comparison to its speed, its weight and its balance. The Master Sword, though, it was an absolute work of true beauty ( _but the back of his head always reminded him that it felt perfect for him because this task of saving Hyrule was his, his,_ his _destiny and no one else's_ ).

But here he was, for the last time, ready to part from it forever. The sword seemed to know what was coming, almost as if it were a sentient being, because the way it called to him ( _so intense, so determined_ ) was no longer as strong as it once was. Instead, it felt as if the once rapid heartbeat of the sword ( _it had once beat in time to the rhythm of his own heart_ ) had dulled to a weak pulse. It was growing heavy on his back and in his hands. It felt so _reluctant_ to be with him anymore.

Link swallowed finally, exhaling a shaky breath. It was time. The altar stood before him, empty, but proud, waiting silently for its friend to return home.

At last, with one swift movement, the Master Sword was returned to its place. As if by magic, a single shaft of light beamed down upon the tired weapon through a stained-glass window above.

Link felt something inside of him snap, and, for the briefest of moments, his heart thudded and hurt. The link between himself and the sword of legend was broken. It was as if a part of the boy-turned-man-turned-boy was gone.

For comfort, Link turned to face his only friend, the one who had been with him from the beginning, his fairy comrade, Navi. Usually appearing as nothing more than a sphere of brilliant white light above his shoulder, when Link searched for her, she was gone.

Panic, in its rawest form of fear and dread, flooded through him. Link's head whipped around left and right, and then, at last, upwards. His blue eyes widened when he saw her. There she was, flying away from him, not looking back, through the window and to the great wilderness beyond. Link reached out weakly, a strangled cry dying in his throat. She was gone. Gone, gone, _gone._ No. No, no, no, please, no, _come back._

Then suddenly, that fire that had been extinguished at the defeat of Ganondorf was back. It was that fire that fed him on his journey, during his deepest and darkest moments of doubt. It had been ignited and was now burning fiercely in his chest. That fire was back because . . .

The boy's gentle gaze hardened and his hands clenched into fists.

. . . he _needed_ to find her.

* * *

Link ignored the repetitive movement of Epona's shoulder blades in favour of looking through the misty woods ( _he was trying desperately to ignore the weight of the Ocarina of Time in his pocket_ ). The tree trunks were thick here, in the forest's depths. Thicker than in the edges of the Lost Woods and deepest parts of the Kokiri Forest. Thicker than himself! But, unfortunately, there was no sign of his lost friend.

 _Navi._

Every time her name invaded his thoughts, it was as if his whole being was tackled to the ground and he had to struggle to get up and reorient himself.

Epona whinnied softly alerting Link that there was something wrong. Something . . . was _amiss_ in these woods. Something . . . _something_. There was a rustling of leaves, too heavy to be a confused forest animal. Then, the familiar ringing of a bell.

 _Navi!_

Link searched around hysterically. Epona whinnied again, this time a louder, more worried sound. The boy in green was suddenly knocked sideways off his steed. The ocarina ( _precious, precious, precious_ ) went flying and Epona neighed, a feral sound unlike any she'd made before. The masked thing that had pushed him off was now holding the prized blue ocarina in its hands and then, in a blink, it was mounted on his horse and riding away from him. When had that thing had time to get on his ( _last_ ) friend _and_ steal his ocarina ( _her ocarina, not his, but after all the things that had happened, it felt like his_ )?

However, there was some good that came out of the violent burglary. Following the thief were two balls of light. Fairies.

 _Navi?_

Link took off after them, his hope deflating the further he ran. He somehow knew in his heart that neither fairy was his Navi. He still wished, though. Tears threatened to fall as he approached several raised platforms, Epona and the thief no where in sight.

 _No, not Epona, too! No, no, no,_ no. _Please, please, please, give her_ back _._

He kept running. He couldn't lose her, not like he lost Navi. Not like he lost the Master Sword and the ocarina. Not like he lost his home. Not like he lost the family he never had, the friends he never made, the future that never happened; Zelda, Impa, the Kokiri, the forest, the lost children, and Saria ( _why did she abandon him?_ ).

He would find Epona. He _had_ to. He would find her _and_ Navi and together, the three of them would go home. The poor green-clad boy didn't know if he would be able to function otherwise because, as his last remaining friend was now gone, he realized that he was alone. Completely and utterly _alone_.

* * *

The Hero of Time had never felt such pain in his life. The thing attached itself to his face and seemed to latch onto every piece of him, changing him, searing his flesh and blood as it travelled through his body. He tried to rip it off; he tried so hard. The thing held on harder.

He didn't know how long it was before the burning stopped. Finally, though, ( _finally_ ) he opened his eyes. Things didn't seem right. Everything seemed, well, _foggier_. Link blinked several times, nervously flexing his fingers . . . or, at least, he _tried_ to.

Looking down, Link was greeted with a pool of water and in it, his reflection. It was a horrifyingly unfamiliar reflection. Terrifying (but sad, so, so _sad_ ) yellow eyes stared back from the rippling liquid. Said glowing yellow eyes were set in a wooden face, the grain of the wood reaching towards the back of his head. His hair, once silky and wheat coloured, was now straw, hard and unmoving. The fairy-less boy gave a startled, gurgled yell before looking up and realizing that the masked thief was there, looking at him, his two fairy companions laughing at the hero's plight ( _where was Epona?_ ).

With few mocking words, the masked demon backed away through a doorway. The moment he had passed the frame, the door lowered and locked the Hero of Time in. Link, speechless, could not focus on anything except the humanity that he had lost ( _why, oh, goddesses, why?_ ).

A bell rang, just ahead of him where the stone door had met with the floor. It was a fairy, the yellow companion belonging to the thief. Link, had he been human, would have narrowed his eyes. Instead, he merely walked up to the fairy who was angrily crying out to her friends. No one came back for her ( _and he felt a strange sense of pity and empathy because no one came back for him either)_.

Her first words to him were angry. She resented him. It was _his_ fault that they were in this mess.

Link had no response to her harsh words, at least, not a response that the dinging little fairy wished to hear. So, he waited a few moments, debating. His response was carefully worded, after weeks of pain and despair ( _he thought the pain was over but everything_ _kept leaving him, why?)_.

 _You've lost something, too_ , he said, his words slapping the petite fairy in the face.

The sprite paused briefly in her cries, appearing to see the sad wooden child for the first time, however, his words did little but anger her further.

The door before them opened abruptly and Link walked down the path that had been revealed to them, his new fairy acquaintance not hesitating to follow. His mind was a hurricane, sorting through all of his blustering thoughts. How. How, how, _how can he handle this_?

He just . . . he just wanted to find Navi.

But instead, he found himself separated from everything he held dear. And he had no idea how to get any of it back.

Link closed his glowing eyes as he realized that before him, the path to another journey, maybe even a greater one than before, now laid ahead of him.

Because he was a hero, no matter the separation that caused him pause in his steps; he had to keep going, if not for himself, then for everyone else. Because his quest, even from the beginning had never been about him ( _but wasn't it this time? Because Navi was gone, and so was Epona, and now his humanity, why, why, why,_ why).

 _Why?_


	2. Luminous

**Repeat: 100 Majora's Mask Oneshots**

 _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Thanks to my first reviewer; I really appreciated hearing your thoughts!

Chapter 2: Luminous

Mr Barten opened the door to the Milk Bar, suppressing a yawn. It was nine o'clock and he'd had a long night. He'd been short-staffed so the normal influx of townsfolk visiting the bar after eleven o'clock had been rather poorly handled. Oh well, he couldn't really do much besides begin the cleanup for the new night's patrons.

However, first he really needed to stretch his legs. Standing behind a bar counter all night, cleaning cups and mugs, greeting customers, why, it all grew tiresome when he couldn't really move around. So, instead, Mr Barten locked his door and began to take his usual stroll around Clock Town. He was greeted immediately by Madam Aroma, a woman who frequented his bar, especially on days when her husband, the mayor, seemed particularly lost at work.

"Did you see?" she asked.

"Hm?" He cocked his head slightly to the side. "See what, Madam Aroma?" Mr Barten scratched his receding hairline in confusion.

"The moon, dear. It seems to be getting bigger." With a heavily bejeweled hand, she gestured widely to the general direction of the moon. Mr Barten looked up in the sky, expecting to have to search for the object of the woman's scrutiny, but he saw it and, no, she was _not_ exaggerating. The moon, once a small sphere in the sky had grown at least five times its original size.

"That's not right," the man murmured. "Now, just when did that happen?"

The mayor's wife shrugged. "Who can say? Went to bed last night and I thought it was normal." Aroma stared at the barkeep for just a moment before shaking her head. "Oh well. We can't do much. I suppose it will return to normal tomorrow." Mr Barten just nodded, and went his separate way from the rotund woman. Still, every time he turned a corner, he found his eyes gazing skyward, analyzing the horrible sphere of rock that was suddenly looming just above their heads.

Mr Barten hurried back home after he realized how unnerved he was by the sight. The next morning, he was hesitant to even go outside. What if the moon hadn't gone back to normal? What if it was still big and unnatural? What if it had gotten _bigger_? Mr Barten took a cloth to his forehead and wiped away the droplets of sweat from its shiny surface.

With a deep intake of breath, he opened his door and was immediately frightened. The moon, that monstrous thing, had gotten _bigger_. The owner of the only bar in Clock Town took a step back in through the door. Not only had it gotten bigger, but now the thing had a _face_. An honest-to-goodness _face_. And not just any face. Its eyes were massive and they burned, rage seeming to blister beneath their glossy surfaces. It was as if the moon wanted to raze Termina to the ground. And its mouth, oh, it's horrible, horrible mouth, it was turned down in a clenching motion, as if the thing were exerting actual effort to _push itself_ closer to the surface of the world.

Mr Barten shut the door, descending back down the stairs and sitting himself down on the lowest step. How absolutely frightening. If it got much bigger, that ball in the sky, the one that had always seemed so far away, why, that thing might _crush_ them.

"Ha," the barkeep exhaled. _Like that would ever happen._

Days later, despite the questionable deku sprout and that violet eyed goron that had both tried repeatedly to get into his bar, nothing much had happened. Each morning he peeked out a crack in his door and eyed the moon to see if the horrifying thing had gotten bigger. Each time, he wished he'd just stayed inside because he was never pleased with the conclusion he had reached. The thing grew ever closer and its eyes only burned more.

The sad thing was Mr Barten could not speak his mind to his customers as they did to him. It wasn't his job to have an opinion, so he just listened. He listened to the believers who, like him, believed that the moon would crush them all. He listened to the skeptics who, unlike him, assumed that no such thing could happen. He listened to the ones in denial, who were almost like him, but they could not face the truth and denied it in fear, not because the truth wasn't viable to them. But he never voiced his opinion. He just nodded to each and every complaint, each and every fear and tried with all his might to comfort the adults in Clock Town with his nightly business. It was the least he could do.

There came a point where a boy in green ambled down his steps, his membership mask attached tightly to his face. Mr Barten, once a man to argue that even if a child had a mask of membership, they should not be allowed in, just remained silent and nodded to his doormen that the boy could come in. If the world was going to end, there was a possibility that this boy would never have a chance to drink his first Romani Milk.

The boy was quiet, ignoring the loud cacophony of voices around him and choosing instead to nurse a large cup of the two-hundred rupee Romani Milk (which he paid for no problem, to Mr Barten's surprise).

The boy, between acts on the stage, looked up at the barkeep, blue eyes curious. _What did the moon look like before?_ The words were soft and Mr Barten struggled for a second to hear them, but years in the service of Clock Town had taught him how to partially read lips so he easily got the gist of the question.

"Like any other moon, I suppose," he said gruffly, setting down the glass cup he'd been drying. "It was smaller, of course. Used to be about this big," and with the fingers on one hand, Mr Barten formed a rough circle between his thumb and index finger, holding it above his head and closing one eye for a better perspective. "Didn't have such a face, either. Sure, the thing had dark spots that kinda looked like a face, but not an _actual_ face." The boy nodded, seeming to know exactly what he was talking about. "You never seen the moon before, boy?"

The boy shrugged and looked into the creamy surface of his drink.

Mr Barten cleared his throat. "Anyways, it used to glow."

The blond looked back up. _Glow_ , he repeated.

"It was luminous. Some nights, it was so bright, you'd swear that it was a second sun in the sky." Mr Barten smiled bitterly. "Of course, the moment it started to get bigger, it grew dull. The only things that shine anymore are its eyes."

The child nodded. He, just like everyone else, had seen the lump of rock in the sky and its unnatural gaze.

Mr Barten sighed. "Look, kid, I don't usually say things like this, but, well, I don't know if Clock Town is going to survive this." Blue eyes widened. "It's not my job to say things, you know, but I figure, well, I don't think we have that much time left. I don't . . . I don't wanna die without speaking my mind just once." The slowly balding man just shook his head. "Sorry to burden you with such heavy thoughts, kid. Maybe you should go back to where you came from. If you leave soon, you might be able to escape before that moon crashes down on us because, believe me, no matter what those eggheads in town say, it's what's going to happen."

The boy's eyes hardened beneath the shadow of his membership mask. He shook his head.

 _No, it won't. Believe me, if it's the last thing I do, it will not live to touch Termina_.

It was Mr Barten's turn for his eyes to widen. The kid, well, he had guts. But promises didn't mean much unless you could actually carry them through. This . . . this was not one of those promises that was possible to keep. Still, Mr Barten envied the boy's conviction.

"You can take that mask off, kid. I won't kick you out." The boy lifted the stylized cow mask off his head and sat it on the bar counter beside him, taking the break in the conversation to sip at his drink. He wiped his mouth afterwards, but while it was happening, Mr Barten finally got a good look at the boy. He was the one that the townspeople had been going on about. Even Cremia had commended him when she'd finally been able to drop off a shipment of milk. He was young, a lot younger than he thought, no more than ten or eleven. His blond hair was swept to the side, most of it tucked in a long, pointy green cap unlike anything he'd seen in Termina. However, the boy carried around a sword and a shield, as well as . . . _was that a bag of bombs_? What, they sold bombs to just anyone nowadays?! Still, that sword and shield . . . they were no play things. He'd served enough soldiers and travelling mercenaries to know true steel when he saw it. His hands also convinced Mr Barten of the boy's ability to use the weapon. They were callused, a definite mark of regular use. Where did this boy come from?

"What's your name, boy?" Mr Barten finally asked. The kid raised a brow. Mr Barten shrugged. "Hey, if you're old enough to go to a bar, you're old enough to tell a stranger your name." The boy chuckled at that.

 _Link_.

Link. How . . . fitting. "Well, Link, it's nice to meet you." The boy, Link, had a strange reaction to those words. Mr Barten, ever a sharp person, tried to break down the reaction. Shock, confusion, remembrance and . . . sadness? How odd. Still, the bar owner decided not to pry. If the kid wanted to tell him, he would. Until then, Mr Barten was just around to listen.

* * *

Link left the bar, thoughtful. Tatl, flying at his side, just over his shoulder, was quiet, surprisingly, considering how she normally couldn't stop talking.

The boy went to his (stolen) room in the Stock Pot Inn, pensively fingering the ocarina in his pocket.

Finally, the silence having driven Tatl crazy, she spoke up.

"Well?"

 _He always says that it was nice to meet me._ Tatl rolled her eyes.

"Because he doesn't remember you!" Link glared. But he stripped off all of his clothes and curled up under the blankets, glad that the fire had been lit. It was always chilly during the night of the second day. "And you're a nice kid," Tatl added under her breath, eliciting a smile from Link who had heard her. "Besides," she added. "You helped Cremia with those stupid wannabe bandits this cycle. Of course he likes you."

 _He says the moon used to be bright. Luminous._

"It was." Tatl's voice was strained. "Until . . . Skull Kid messed it up." She was sitting on the bed just beside Link's face now. "It was beautiful, really. Wasn't it like that back in Hyrule? Or . . . did you not have a _moon_?!"

Link shook his head.

"Oh, yeah, you did. You mentioned it a couple of times, I guess." Tatl sighed. "But anyways, now . . . it's not. It's scary. And dark. And menacing. And freaky. And creepy. And eerie. And totally frightening." Link rolled his eyes and snuggled deeper into the covers, thinking about the moon in Hyrule. It was luminous. It had lit his path on many a night. But he simply couldn't imagine the moon in Termina like that. Ever since he came to Termina it had been anything but bright.

But, he knew that Mr Barten wouldn't lie. And neither would Tatl, at least, not anymore.

"Goodnight, Link", she murmured.

Link smiled into his pillow but did not respond. He was just happy that someone was there with him through all these never-ending cycles. Maybe one day he would get there and bring the moon back to what it used to be. Because he realized now that he really missed the normal, unobstructed view of the sky he'd once had in Hyrule. He thought that maybe that was true for the people here in Termina, too.


	3. Paralysed

**Repeat: 100 Majora's Mask Oneshots**

 _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Paralysed**

Exiting the building, one that just happened to be the base of an enormous clock tower, Link took a moment to let his eyes explore this new place. It was mostly comprised of tan coloured blocks tinted with muted reds and blues and reinforced with wood. There weren't as many people as there had been in Castle Town, a place which much contrasted this new area with its greys and bright colours.

Then Link's eyes, shimmering in the light of the new day's sun, began to note movement.

First, it was a small white dog, running around and making yippy noises. Then it was a man on top of a large platform that was about two storeys into the sky. Then it was a Postman, a carpenter, a boy in purple walking to a post-box, a guard. Some of the people he saw were people he recognized. People he knew. People he had had whole conversations with, once upon a time.

He took a hesitant step forward, but then the dog spotted him and began the wild chase through town until someone, a familiar juggler, laughed at the poor Deku scrub's plight and lifted the dog up, his brother laughing along with him.

Link ran into the nearest building. The life blood within him pulsed quickly, liquid gurgling from the hole that was his mouth. Link wiped it off with his unfamiliar wooden hands before looking at the couple in front of him proclaiming each other's love. Golden eyes widened at the sight. There were so many people he knew, people from Hyrule, but at the same time . . . they weren't. He couldn't explain how he knew without talking to them, but he did. He knew without any doubt that these people would not recognize him. They would see him and treat him like a stranger.

Deku Link exited the shop without so much as a word.

The guards forced him to remain in town.

The jugglers were from Kakariko Village. The carpenters from Gerudo Valley. The Postman was the Runner. The shop owners were the two lovers from Castle Town. Who else would be here? Malon? Mido? Saria? Zelda? _Ganondorf_?

Link began to involuntarily tremble at the thought of the evil overlord, but forced himself out of it quickly. The jugglers (too familiar) from earlier were eying him curiously.

Many three-day cycles passed. Link regained his human form and he also gained some new ones. But along the way, as he ventured into each of the four cardinal directions of Termina, Link saw so many people he knew from another life. None of them recognized him.

Malon who wasn't Malon but Romani and her older sister Cremia. Princess Ruto who wasn't Ruto but Lulu. The boy from the Kakariko Graveyard who was actually the entirety of the Bomber's gang. Twinrova who were actually owners of a potions shop. Talon who now owned a milk bar. The scientist from Lake Hylia who now had a lab in Great Bay.

His eyes grew misty when every time he saw these people and so many, many more and remembered things he had done for and with them only to realize that they were _not the same people_. They were doubles, doppelgangers, clones, others.

There was no sign of anyone who looked like Zelda or Saria, though.

Every time he saw them, Link wanted to curl up, he wanted to throw up, he wanted to forget.

Maybe their similarities helped Link. Maybe they didn't actually change anything. While knowing that he knew these people in another world only made him work harder to save them, he also knew that there was a time back in Hyrule where he hadn't known them and had still done all he could to save them. It had been because no one deserved to die either from a Gerudo megalomaniac or an oversized rock in the sky.

It still didn't change the fact that Link struggled against calling them their _other_ names. How many times had he almost called Cremia and Romani Malon? How many times had he almost addressed Anju as Miss Cucco Lady? How many times?

It didn't help that every time he saw them he froze, paralyzed. They didn't recognize him, but he never stopped recognizing them.

"Ruto?" had been one of the harder doubles to get right. He'd been doing quite well, only slipping up maybe once per cycle up until that point. Almost every time one of their other ( _real, old, actual)_ names bubbled to his lips, he had managed to shove it down and say their current ( _wrong, new, fake)_ names.

The Zora, when she'd been called that foreign name, had simply flicked her fins and glanced up at him before turning her solemn gaze back to the sea. Lulu, the other Zora called her. Lulu, they repeated when he accidentally called her Ruto in front of the bass player, Japas and their band leader, Evan. For some reason, Link just couldn't bring himself to call her Lulu. This caused him to slip at least four times that cycle.

He had gone to sit out in the back of Zora's Domain after the fourth slip, Ruto ( _no, you know her name is Lulu here_ ) still there.

Then, in the mutual silence, Link contemplated. He _knew_ these people. And it scared him each time they stared at him with unfamiliar eyes. He would freeze on the spot, grip his sword and force himself to not act like a fish out of water (no pun intended).

The man-boy-hero wondered how long it would be before he stopped seeing these too familiar people and associating them with names and events that they had never expierenced. It had been years worth of cycles and still, he fought against his instincts.

"Are you alright?" Cremia asked him on the second day of the current cycle. She was standing in the barn, and Link had come to comfort her ( _he hadn't saved Romani this cycle. There hadn't been time. He'd been so tired. He hadn't been able to wake up.)_ over the zombie-like state that her sister was currently in. She'd finally pulled her hands away from her face and had really looked at the sweet little boy who had told her the news that Milk Road was open.

 _I'm fine._ Link's words, unfortunately for Cremia (who would've done her best to find out what was wrong and help that poor little boy because he reminded her so much of her sister, desperate to play the part of the hero), betrayed little of the inner turmoil that the hero was currently feeling. Cremia, with a sad expression, went back to her own troubles, wondering what she was going to do now that her own sister was no longer coherent and there were no cows to milk.

Really, though, Link had been about to tell Malon that it was okay. Malon, not Cremia who was the actual woman standing in front of him.

( _It's okay Malon, it won't stay like this. It'll get better. I promise.)_

Link had gone deathly still when the memories of that other world had invaded his mind and clouded his judgement. His lips had begun to form her name, his hand reaching out in comfort. And then the thunder cracked outside and he was brought back to the world of Termina. His hand was frozen in place, inches from Cremia's back, his eyes wide with panic and she had _noticed_.

Scenarios like that happened often as more and more cycles passed ( _wasn't it supposed to get easier?)._

Link had come to accept it as a part of his forever repeating life. He saw people he knew from before, he saw them and he waited for that familiarity to light up in their eyes when they saw him, but it never happened. They continued with their day-to-day routines. Sometimes, when Link was tired of the loss of friendship that he'd once had with these people ( _these precious, precious people)_ he would go through the effort to get to know them again.

He'd notice similarities. Both Anju and the Cucco Lady liked to have their breakfasts at precisely five-thirty in the morning. Lulu and Princess Ruto both had a specific way that they lowered themselves into the water that was unique to them. Both Malon and her Cremia/Romani counterparts enjoyed watching the sunset from the highest perches they could find. The list went on. It didn't make things easier.

In fact, maybe it made things harder. Because once he'd gotten to know the people of this world, of Termina, they'd forget him when the three days of the current cycle were up. He'd know even more about them, but they'd forgotten him. The things he had done, those people he had helped, nothing of his deeds remained when he started again on the First Day.

So, again, Link came to expect the daily bouts of paralysis he'd experience when seeing those people he once knew, then knew again, then knew forever. It was repetitive and tiring,but there was no way for him to stop it.

Those moments became a part of him. But, in the end, it didn't really matter.

Because no matter how many times his steps faltered and names from another world formed on his tongue, he knew that these people, these lost, precious people, were friends of his, even if they couldn't remember him.

And.

He would do _anything_ to save them.


	4. Job

**Repeat: 100 Majora's Mask Oneshots**

 _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

* * *

For the holidays, a double update. Thanks to **hitorijanaite** who reviewed and reminded me that I was going to post for Christmas. So, for those who celebrate it, Merry Christmas! Otherwise, happy holidays everyone!

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Job**

He had lost her when he was five. His mother, with kind honey eyes and a gentle peach smile, had passed on into the hands of the Goddess, her life fading the way that most did. One moment she had been laying there in her bed, a grim smile betraying her dooming thoughts, and the next her eyes had closed, and her chest had stopped its strained rising and falling.

He had been five the last time he felt his mother's love. And yet, his father, his strong, fierce father with deep-set eyes and a rare smile that often caused his beard to twitch, didn't seem to react. Every morning the man would set the bright red Postman's cap on his head and set off around town to deliver mail.

The five-year-old, on the other hand, could not function. He remained in his now too-empty house and he dissolved into tears. He could not be like his father, his reliable, determined father who showed no pain. He could not ignore the grief that had grabbed him by the neck and held him in a choke hold every second of every waking hour.

But then, as it tends to do, time passed. The five-year-old grew into a ten-year-old and the anguish that once seemed so stifling lessened, releasing its solid grip. The ten-year-old had grown. The memories he'd once held of his mother dimmed and she was now but a distant dream, the presence of her tinkling laughter fading from the locked vaults of his mind. He was stronger now. He was capable. He was eager. He was ready for the world.

(He would always love his mother, his darling, sweet mother whose kisses were like rose petals on his cheeks. He would never forget the day he watched her burn, when they sent her ashes on the wind and bid their last heartfelt goodbyes.)

But his father, his dedicated, driven father, why, one day he fell to the cruel, merciless world. He'd been out on duty and had not returned home. His ten-year-old son channeled the blankness his father so often displayed in his eyes and he approached a Clock Town guard.

"My father has not come home," he told them. The guards—cowards, his father had often sneered—exchanged glances in their barrack, surrounded by mead and other pleasures. But they agreed to search for him, for their friendly neighborhood postman, whose words were always short and simple and whose kindness never reached his eyes.

And they returned to the Postman's child but a few days later, faces grim and statures poor.

"We are sorry," they said. "This was all we found of your father." In their hands they carried a hat made from sturdy cherry fabric. The bright material was stained with mud and crimson. Blood? His stomach lurched as his eyes scanned the rest of the hat, looking for some kind of sign that it was not his father's. Its black brim was dented and torn, but as he reached for the object with trembling fingertips and clasped it in his unsteady grip so he could turn it over, the tag nestled in its underside tauntingly unstained.

He swallowed as his eyes read the name sewn into the tag. And then his vision blurred, his surroundings blending into a solid masterpiece of bleeding colours. His breathing hitched and a feeling he'd thought he'd long forgotten returned.

Emptiness. Hollowness. Loneliness. Nothing.

"Thank you," he managed, holding the hat now tight against his body, heading home in a haze.

Once he'd heard the click of the door behind him, the child (orphan, he was an _orphan_ now) fell to the floor in a heap and let go of the sob he'd been holding in. It was an angry, inhuman sounding expression of pain. His father, so dependable, so prepared, had abandoned him to the cruel miseries of the world.

The red hat with the hand sewn label was whipped across the room. It hit the cow figure on the table and sent it flying to the ground. The act was followed by another great sob, and then another and another until he was gasping for breath.

He did not leave his house for days.

When someone finally thought to check on him (Mr Barten, an acquaintance of his father's) almost nothing had been touched in the house. The ten-year-old boy had abandoned his bed for the floor, having made a nest of pillows and blankets where he'd laid, practically comatose. In his hands was the soiled red hat.

The bartender—who hadn't even been that close to the Postman—ran to the boy to make sure he was still alive before shaking him awake.

"Sorry," he apologized, as if he could take back something that he'd had no hand in. "They wanted me to tell you . . . they found his body."

With wide eyes, the boy stared up at the man. Fresh tears gathered in his eyes as suddenly the worst was confirmed. The pain that had been taunting him between the denial and the fake acceptance came back with glee, invading his mind and leaving him blind.

The bartender, unused to handling such delicate matters involving children, panicked and grabbed him in a tight embrace.

"It'll be okay, son, I promise. You aren't alone."

But he was a liar. For all that his father had been good at his job, that was all he was good at. Making friends was nothing but a waste of time. The Postman had once known every person in Clock Town. He knew their routines and their habits. He knew who was fooling around on who and who was pretending to be cordial with who. He knew all of this and it made him cold.

The Postman's son knew very little about his father who'd always been so closed off, nothing like his loving, beautiful mother. He did not know that his father had loved but one person in his entire life (his sweet, sweet wife). He did not know that when this woman died, his father distanced himself from the one person in the world who reminded him of her (his son who shared the same bright hair colour and bore eyes that were the mirror image of those belonging to his love). The Postman had had no friends. He'd only ever had acquaintances, people he knew in passing.

And so, less than a week after his father's ashes were spread, Mayor Dotour, who had only been in office for a few months, requested that the orphaned boy take up his father's old mantle. Because the mail never stopped, and someone had to take over. Why not the child who still bore resentment for his father, the child who knew nothing of the world beyond what his father had told him about a postman's duty?

It was bittersweet, that day that he completed his first run. It was nothing new. He'd tagged along with his father (an unwanted nuisance, interfering with a well-timed route) often enough that he knew which streets to take to get the job done. But never had he done one alone. Never had he been the one wearing the Postman's Hat. Never had he felt such pitying glances from every townsperson he saw. It crushed him on the inside.

Days passed, and the pitying glances lessened until they died completely. The hard look never faded from the boy's face, though. Tourists to the town often pondered why such a young boy was delivering mail and looking like someone had killed his cat, but they never voiced their thoughts aloud to anyone but themselves.

But then, a year into his service to the town, he met Madame Aroma. Madame Aroma was twenty-five to the Postman's eleven when she first confronted him. He had been finishing up the day's route, delivering a note from the man who ran the shooting range to the owner of the Treasure Chest Shop when she saw him and made him pause.

"Why do you always look so sad?" she said with a silly giggle. With a pudgy hand she scratched at her cheek. "You should be proud, young man. Proud that you are doing this town and its people a great service. Why, you are almost as good as your father was." The boy sensed a 'but' here. He wasn't wrong. "But you seem to be . . . a little less focused."

The child eyed the older woman. At the mention of his father, his breathing got caught in his throat and he attempted to stammer out his denial, but she finished her words before he could say anything.

"You'd think you almost didn't want to _be_ a postman," she tsked. "Delivering the post is no slouching matter, young man. Being the Postman entails more than just being a postman. No, you need to be assertive and determined. You need to do it in a timely matter. There is no if or when about it. The post is very important, and its delivery even more so, mmhm." She shook her head before heading up the stairs towards the Mayor's office and her current home. The boy watched with an open mouth, processing her words.

He delivered the note and went back to his own home on the other side of town in a daze.

The next morning, he was a different person. He lived and breathed for the people of Clock Town and their mail. He wanted, no, _needed_ to be the Postman to their small town. It was all he had left. His mother (his beautiful, dream-like mother) had been gone for so long and he realized that he had never actually gotten over the loss of his father (his private, miserable father). That was, until Madame Aroma had told him exactly what it was that he needed to hear. For a whole year, he had been _failing_ the people of Clock Town!

He would not continue to do so. He _could not_. So, with a swift movement, his hat was on his head and he began his route. It was the same route his father had run not so long ago and was the same route that he would continue to run until the end of his days. He wasn't just a postman; he was _the_ Postman.

Years later, the Postman would stare up at the sky and wonder whether the end of his days would be sooner rather than later. The Moon was looking mighty close . . . then again, he was the Postman. He couldn't let something as silly as the Moon get in his way. He had to do his job until the very end.


	5. Notebook

**Repeat: 100 Majora's Mask Oneshots**

 _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

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Thanks to FCL and Nevalone for their kind reviews. Enjoy!

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 **Chapter 5: Notebook**

Jim was staring at the balloon. On its smooth rubber side was a face that every time he saw angered him. That damnable Skull Kid, laughing at him even as he hopped away, that harsh cackle grating against his ears.

"Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim." Jim turned around and lowered his slingshot, glaring at the person who interrupted him.

"What is it Number Two?" His voice was stern and authoritative, at least, he thought so. His mother always laughed at him when he used that voice at home on his sister.

"Number Three has finished his obo-jec-i-tive. He has returned Anju's umbrella to her as of thirteen hundred hours."

"Good. Dismissed." Jim turned to go back to his slingshot practice (he needed to be really good if he ever wanted to leave town and explore the world and help more people . . . that and he was really mad at Skull Kid).

"Jim. Jim. Jim."

"What, Number Two?" Exasperated, Jim lowered his slingshot for the second time, wondering perhaps if the Mayor had lost his lucky paperweight again.

"Number Five has also confirmed sightings of a new person in town. A young scrub dressed in green. Alone and without adult supervision."

"Hm." Jim tapped his index finger to his cheek in thought. "Has it expressed any need for help?"

"No sir, though it does seem kind of lost. He has passed both Number Five and Number Four at least six times since yesterday and has been seen repeated-ed-edly going in and out of the Mayor's office, the Stock Pot Inn and the Clock Tower."

Jim tried to prevent a grimace at the failed attempt to say 'repeatedly' properly. He thought he mostly succeeded and instead chose to address the problem of the newbie in town. "Continue observations. At the first sign of distress, offer aid. Until then, remain on guard. He may not be unlike our previous member. Spread the order."

Number Two nodded, "Sir, yes sir!" and saluted before stumbling away from his leader to tell the other Bombers of the new orders.

Jim had not seen the Deku Scrub that the others were talking about. Even if he had, after the fiasco with Skull Kid, he doubted he would have done anything to open up to the child. Unless they were local kids, Jim wanted them to have no part in his club.

 **XxXxXxXxX**

Unbeknownst to him, it was a cycle later and Jim was still firing away at his Skull Kid balloon. He really was practising as hard as he could. As he was reloading his trusty slingshot with another stone off the ground, the balloon just a few feet above him popped.

Startled, the boy with the red bandana popped up and looked around for the bully that had popped his balloon (now he would have to make _another_ one.) To his surprise, it was a green-clad boy. He hadn't seen any like him in town before, so it must have been someone visiting town for the fesitval. The first thing that Jim noticed about the boy was that he had such expressive eyes. His mother always told him that eyes were the windows to the soul. If that was true, Jim wondered what kind of soul the kid had to wear such a look.

Assuming what the kid was there for, Jim did what he did for all wannabe members. He made up a game of hide-and-seek and tag.

"If you can catch all of us, we'll let you join the Bombers."

The boy didn't say much. Jim didn't really expect him to, to be honest.

Jim, after having spread the word to his top four members (the ones who helped him protected the Bombers most valuable secret) hit it for the slide, to hide by the tree. And then he waited.

The blonde looked around after about thirty seconds, blue eyes raking area. And then, he left North Clock Town. Jim released a breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding then fixed his small red fringe that was peaking out from beneath his bandana.

Jim eyed the other Bomber who'd chosen the same section of town in which to hide. He wasn't doing a very good job of hiding, not really, and before Jim could sneak out and scold him for shaming the gang, the blonde boy was back, somersaulting a few times and then darting forward from behind the wall. His second-in-command was caught in seconds. Jim smacked himself in the face as his dad often did when he was exasperated.

But then something rough and calloused touched his arm. He looked back and realized that in the seconds he'd been distracted, that curious kid had run from Number Two to him.

 _That's everyone_ , he said quietly. And with that, Jim had been forced to admit defeat.

The top five members of the Bombers Gang, himself included, gathered at that moment and Jim began his speech (a part of him was still in shock. _How did he find us all so fast?_ ).

"The password we're about to tell you is one of the biggest secrets in our organization." Jim was happy he didn't stutter over the long word. "You can't tell _anyone_. Boys!" The Bombers lined up and, as a responsible leader, Jim took his position last. With a loud whistle, the five Bombers members began to turn their backs, the large black numbers on their backs reading out loud and clear.

"Give this password to the kid in the yellow and he'll let you through," Jim explained. "And, I guess, I have something else for you. If you could find all of us, maybe you can help people, too."

And it was true. It was a kid-proven fact that anyone that wanted to join the Bombers that could find at least four of the five members would help people in and around town. It was only right that this (foreign) kid was also allowed the opportunity.

With very little fanfare, Jim went over to his box of stuff that he kept hidden behind the slide and rummaged through it for a few seconds. He came up victorious a few moments later and hobbled back over to the new member.

"This will be your Bomber's Notebook. You can write down stuff in it, like people who need help and then check off the people you've helped." The boy held out a hesitant hand, almost as if he understood what it meant to be handed one of the leather bound books. Then, he smiled, a warm, enticing smile that made Jim realize that for all he had doubted this foreign boy, he had made no mistake in letting him join the Bombers Secret Society for Justice. He was going to help a lot of people. Maybe, judging by the sword and shield on his back, he would help more than just the people in Clock Town. Maybe. Jim didn't know, he could only guess.

Still, a part of Jim was glad. Just as the new member was about to turn away, the red head called out, giving him pause.

"Hey! What's your name?"

The blonde haired, blue eyed child smiled.

 _Link._

"Well, Link, be sure to look after that Notebook. I want it to be _filled_ by the next time I see you!"

 _It will be. I swear_

And Jim couldn't help but think that he would have no regrets this time. Link would be a great Bomber. Perhaps even the greatest in Clock Town's history!

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Author's Note: So, in case you were wondering, why yes, I only write chapters for this fic when inspiration strikes. Hence the rather sporadic updates.

I have already chosen my 100 word prompts for this story, however, if there was something you wanted to request in concerns to this story (whether it be a oneshot about a specific character or a random character interaction), please feel free to drop a PM or a review and I'll take your idea into account.

Otherwise, your continued support is greatly appreciated!


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